How his brother would abhor this lunacy, Ramsay thought, as a vigorous game of Catch started around him. Ramsay envied Niven his certainty—he had Passchendaele at his back to give credence to his simmering outrage, whereas Ramsay had only a Swiss sanatorium and a burning desire to be acknowledged on a wider stage. Or any stage at all.
He sought refuge in a reclusive corner of privet to make notes. He carried a notebook everywhere with him now, although he was currently far too drunk to write anything coherent and his jottings consisted mostly of repeatedly writing the word “IDIOTS!” in capital letters. A passing waiter with a tray found him and, with an impassive face, asked, “More Mother’s Milk, sir?” Ramsay lifted a Jack and Jill mug off the tray. How would he engineer a murder here?, he wondered. A fictional murder, but nonetheless you had to sort of act it out in your head, didn’t you? A strangling in the shrubbery, a bomb that detonated on a hopscotch square? Poison in the Mother’s Milk was the easiest one, he supposed.
Poison was easy to get hold of, you just went to the chemist or the ironmonger and said you had rats. There was an ironmongery next door to the Amethyst, part of the complex secret escape route, and he resolved to purchase some poison tomorrow. Strychnine, he imagined. Or arsenic. Cyanide, perhaps. They were all attractive words. He was intrigued to know what it would feel like to buy what was, to all intents and purposes, a murder weapon. Would he feel a twinge of guilt? But it would be quite legitimate—after all, they did have rats and they couldn’t just expect Phyllis to keep on bludgeoning them to death all the time, although she had seemed to enjoy it in a way that had slightly unnerved Ramsay.
It dawned rather slowly on Ramsay how drunk he was, having by now imbibed almost the entire Mother Goose oeuvre as well as consuming the five-shilling packet of dope that he had armoured himself with before coming here. Nor was he any longer safe in the privet, as people with stupid names like Bunny, Bingo, Pingo and Pongo suddenly descended on him, mistaking him for a participant in their hide-and-seek game. They dragged him out into the open and it took a short yet vigorous bout of fisticuffs to escape them. Ramsay wasn’t as good a scrapper as Niven, but he had spent time in the ring at Fettes, not always defeated, and, coached by Niven, was not afraid to face his enemies if there was no alternative.
As the evening dragged on, the place increasingly resembled Bedlam. It was when Ramsay found himself assisting the under-butler of the “great house” with the task of ejecting a reluctant donkey from the library (no mean feat) that he decided he couldn’t cope with the burlesque any more. He was about to call it a night when he caught sight of the enemy approaching—a two-pronged attack, with Pamela Berowne galloping towards him on his left flank and Vivian Quinn cruising towards him at a more leisurely pace on his right, the usual self-satisfied smirk on his face. Quinn, Ramsay noticed, was caparisoned in the costume of a Spanish matador.
Evasive action was called for. Ramsay sprinted away across the gardens, Pamela baying in pursuit. He had to negotiate a course of random obstacles—baby dolls that had been callously abandoned, the rocker off a rocking horse, a pushchair broken when it had been used in a wheelbarrow race—and had just jumped over a series of box hedges like a nifty steeplechaser, almost making it to the iron railings at the boundary, when he was brought down at full tilt by a recumbent toy scooter and was sent sprawling on the grass.
“Mine, I think,” a triumphant Quinn said to Pamela Berowne, placing a foot on a spreadeagled Ramsay like a big-game hunter claiming his quarry. Or indeed, a bullfighter who had conquered a bull. Pamela conceded before stomping off. She seemed to concede defeat rather easily, in Ramsay’s opinion. Although relieved to have escaped being wooed by her, he liked to think that if he was keen on someone he would put up more of a fight.
“I belong to neither of you,” he said irritably as Quinn helped him to his feet.
“No, you’re right, Coker, you don’t,” Quinn said. “You belong to Azzopardi.”
* * *
—
“Oh, what fools these mortals be, eh, Coker?” Quinn said as they lit cigarettes on the edge of the square.
“Why are you dressed as a matador, Quinn? The dress code was ‘Infant.’?”
“I’m going on somewhere grown-up afterwards.”
“Now you’ve mentioned grown-ups, Quinn, I’d like to know why you abandoned me at the spieler last week? I’m curious, all this go-between stuff with Azzopardi. Like a lackey. Or a lapdog. What was it—did the Maltese pay you to take me to Belgravia?”
Quinn remained unruffled. It was difficult to insult him, he seemed to take everything as a compliment. “I think all that evil-criminal-underworld stuff’s rather attractive, don’t you? A frisson of danger.” He pretended to shiver, like a ham actor. “Especially,” he continued, “if you’re using it in a novel.” He paused to make sure he would have an effect on Ramsay. “As I have, you know.”
No, Ramsay howled silently. Quinn had no claim on the underworld, no understanding of it at all, whereas Ramsay lived amongst it every night. It belonged to him. He said nothing. He wouldn’t satisfy Quinn with his outrage.
“Either that or an exposé,” Quinn carried on blithely. “The Times has commissioned a long article from me—I have contacts there. The vicious individuals who rule the London underworld—that sort of thing. Serious journalism.”
“You—a serious journalist?”
“We all have our ambitions, Coker. Some more attainable than others. Look at you, you’re hoping to be a bestselling author. Good luck with that, old chum.” Quinn hooted with laughter and placed his arm around Ramsay’s shoulders. Ramsay shook him off irritably.
“So, has it been accepted by a publisher? Your novel.” Ramsay refused to say its stupid title.
“No, no one’s seen it, absolutely no one. I would hate to hand over something that wasn’t perfect. It’s sitting on my desk, waiting for a final polish. It won’t be a problem, it’s brilliant, though I say so myself. You haven’t said whether you like my costume? It’s called a traje de luces—a “suit of lights.” Have you been to Spain, Coker? No, you haven’t, have you? Actually, when I was in Paris I had a very interesting discussion about bullfighting with an American chap called Hemingway, a journalist, writes stories. He’s got a novel coming out this year all about los toros, you should keep an eye out for it, he’s going to be a real name—”
“Fuck off, Quinn!”
“Actually, I have a message for you from Azzopardi,” Quinn said, unfazed. “He’s looking for you.”
“I suppose he wants his money,” Ramsay said miserably.
“Nothing as common as that.”
“What, then?”
“I don’t know. Some kind of forfeit.”
“Forfeit? What does that mean?”
“You, I expect, Coker. He probably wants you. You know—an old queen looking to press the flesh of a young prince. Probably just wants to spend a night with you as payment.”
Quinn’s cynical mask slipped for a moment and he looked pained. Did Azzopardi have a hold on him as well? Quinn had a taste for some queer things—perhaps Azzopardi supplied them. Or blackmail. A man like Quinn invited blackmail.
“Anyway, must go,” Quinn said, the puckish mask back in place. “I’ve a column to fill. The Bright Young People surpassed themselves in their whimsical frolics tonight. Ramsay, younger son of famous nightclub owner Nellie Coker, was spotted enjoying the fun and games. What do you think?”
“Don’t you dare write anything about me!” Ramsay finally snapped and threw a punch, badly aimed as he was awash with Mother’s Milk. The blow found only empty air as Quinn, surprisingly light on his feet, had already neatly sidestepped out of the way.
“You’d better be off before you do yourself an injury, Coker,” he laughed. “Anyway, I’m going back to the party. Pingo’s promised to play ball with me. Or was it Bingo? I don’t suppose it matters. I’m sure it will be an explosive game. ’Night, Coker.”
He did a silly little skip as he returned in the direction of the gardens they had just left.
Ramsay thought he might kill Quinn. Stab him in the heart and watch him realize what a fool he was as his life ebbed away.
* * *